Poor
It was no secret that Orpheus was poor. The money he made at his job cleaning tables came from Hermes' spare income, and even for a god of commerce, times were hard.
Between buying provisions to sell at the bar and maintenance costs, Hermes couldn't spare much to give Orpheus. Half the time it went right back to him when the young man bought a snack or a drink, and the tip jar hadn't been full in years.
But though Orpheus knew, he didn't care. He was rich in other, more meaningful ways; his songs made everyone and everything around him listen, and he could see beauty in the deepest darkness and the blinding light.
Eurydice asked him once why he kept the lyre; instruments were expensive, and its wood could be used to stoke a fire in desperate times. But Orpheus said it was priceless to him, worth more than gold, and he was right.
Let them think her lover poor, she thought with a grin. Eurydice knew he was wealthy in all the ways that mattered to him, and he'd promised her the world with his music. If all went as he promised, they'd never be poor again.